“Up and down, as always,” Duncan
said handing over the coffee and bag of donuts. “Yup, sometimes
pretty shitty. But how are you managing?”

“Cash only now,” he said taking a
drink of the steaming brew. “Bloody bank fees are too high. Ah, mon
vieux, this coffee hits the spot.”

“Ah, no problemo”

Duncan sat down behind the counter with
Yves on one of the stools and looked around. Posters of concerts
signed by musicians, signed guitars in cases, and facing them, a complete wall of fine wood
shelving ten feet high housing the albums for sale. A few cabinets
and shelving units in the middle of the long narrow shop with
additional LP's and assorted islands of glassed-in memorabilia made
up the eclectic, yet clean, decor of Disques Deux Côtés.
Duncan spun around on his stool looking at the posters behind him. He liked the way a poster of The Clash was hanging beside
a poster of Yo Yo Ma, and
another of Miles Davis. Yves
and his juxtapositions; just like the way he used to play his bass.

“La brume, la
brume! Two days of this weather,” Yves said gesturing at the window
with his half eaten cruller. “It's tough enough being on this side
street without this fog!”

“Like being in
the valley of Mordar perhaps,” Duncan replied, knowing Yves was a
Tolkien aficionado.

“And the damn
penny! Soon it will be no longer. More complications eh, pennies,
taxes, bank fees. . . fog!” he said dramatically before licking
his fingers.

“Maybe we should
regroup,” Yves said. “You, me and Tom. Hook up with a good
looking female singer and get back into the showbiz, eh? Make some
extra cashola. Smooth ride.”

Not wanting to
deflate Yves's enthusiasm if he was serious, Duncan nodded his head
and shuffled his feet before telling him his guitar cases were very
dusty, having not touched them in many, many months. Looking at Yves, his fine bald head, his dark goatee, the earring, the tattoo, he could see him back on stage. “I saw Tom yesterday,” Duncan
said, “he's grown his side-burns again.”

“Yeah,
we run hot and cold, Celsius!” Yves
said sweeping a hand before him like a magician.

Duncan raised his
coffee in a gesture of a toast, “To Celsius, may it clear the fog!”

“To Celsius!”

“So, how is
Céline,” Duncan asked, helping himself to a sugary cruller.

“Good, good, but
you know, office politics." Yves sipped his coffee as if in pain. “Céline is using
the sauna a lot let me tell you. Lots of stress. Lots of stress.”

“Here we are,”
Duncan said, “two men running businesses with few if any employees,
and women are in the office world slugging it out with all its
backbiting, and corporate ceilings of one kind or another.”

“I thought women
would be different than men.” Yves said. “Less coo coo for coco
pops than men.”

“In the old
days,” Duncan said, “people would be called duplicitous,
disingenuous, deceitful, two-faced."

“Coo coo for coco
pops works for me,” Yves said.”

“How are the
kids?”

“Hunky Dory,
Dunc, hunky dory. Everything's dee dee dee, da da da,” he said
gesturing with his thumbs as if he were texting. “They're good but
man they live on their phones.”

“Merci mon ami,”
Duncan said, tossing his empty cup into the recycling box under the
counter. “Well, it was good to see you my friend.”

They shook hands
and Yves pointed at him and said, “Celsius!”

Duncan laughed as
he made his way to the door, pointing back, “Celsius, right.”

*

The
folio sketch book lay open before Jerome, hours of preparatory
sketches, cartoons, and studies overflowed from page to page. He
looked down at the delicate hands of Lucrezia Panciatichi, one with her long fingers resting on a religious devotional text, the other spread sensually upon the arm of an oak
chair, studies in delicacy, studies in subtext. The words, sans fin amour
dure, and dure
sans fin amour he had
written across the top of the page in a flourish of black ink. These words were to be found on the long golden necklace worn by Lucrezia, one word per golden round plate, words that could be read either way depending on the word one had started with. The
list of the required colour palette he had written along one side.

The
portrait of Lucrezia Panciatichi had originally been painted on a
wood panel probably made of poplar, about 40 by 34 inches, a panel
that would have required many hours of preparation by apprentices. He
didn't know if his client wished for complete authenticity, or
whether canvas would do. He had to be prepared for anything.

The
many half-circle symmetries within the painting renewed his love for
the portrait and the painter. The subject's slightly off center seated position within the dark framing of the the architectural detail arching
behind her, was to Jerome, utterly perfect. The top of the arch being
left out was a brilliant observation of what would reinforce the
subject, keeping the eye within. From afar there was the classical triangular structure rising from the hands to her mannerist long neck and up to her subtle facial features. Between the jewelled pendant hanging from the string of pearls, and the longer golden necklace draping underneath with the words in gold, Jerome felt the tightness in her bosom, felt the constraint upon her breath.

He
wondered if his own subject would have such a melancholy look.

Bronzino
had always been a favourite painter of Jerome's and the more he
contemplated this portrait commission, the more he thought he would
like to make a copy of the complimentary painting, the portrait of
her husband, Bartolomeo, whose extraordinary beard and appearance
reminded him of a friend of his, a jazz musician.

Art
books and large reproductions lay open before him, numerous examples of the two paintings for
him to study. The dark intelligent eyes of Bartolomeo and his long
nose were subtly reinforced by the dark eyes and long nose of his
black dog in the lower right corner, the dog looking out at the
painter, and at the viewer with a sense of admonished curiosity. The
aristocrat and future French Ambassador was only thirty years of age
in 1540, the date of the painting, even though he would likely be
taken for twice that age by a casual observer today. There was a
wisdom and a scholarly aura that Bronzino had captured, one that
perhaps had revealed a Humanist in a dangerous age of religious
constraints. Jerome wondered if Bartolomeo could have foreseen the
dangers of the Italian Inquisition when in the early 1550s he
returned from France and was required to renounce his heretical
Lutheranism. Jerome was fascinated that this son of a great Italian
banking and commercial family should have had the courage to involve
himself with the Protestants of Lyon, even perhaps in bringing
Protestant books back to Florence.

Jerome
looked deeply at the face of Lucrezia and felt it was a combination
of the features which gave the total effect of melancholy, purity,
and chastity. The delicate lips, the slight shadows around the wide,
innocent, yet concerned eyes. The lips, however, he felt were the key
to the melancholy, not the eyes. The eyes were brilliantly done
though. The further away you were, the more they seemed to stare
straight ahead. The closer you approached, the more you realized they
were looking slightly over your right shoulder. Brilliant. The closer
you got, the more you felt someone was standing behind you.

The
doorbell rang. Jerome placed the sketch book in his large shoulder
bag with all of his prepared art supplies, picked up his light-weight portable easel and descended the stairs to his
front door. The bell rang again just as he was putting his leather coat on. On
the stoop, a well-dressed, heavy set man, about 6' 2” looked down
at him. “Is that all you have?” he enquired.

Tuesday, January 29, 2013

It was 7 a. m. and Jerome van Starke
was as fresh as his coffee. He had slept well. If he had dreamed, he
couldn't remember. He blew down over the steam rising from his cup,
and gazed out the window at the trees and shrubs bathed in a
sepia hue from the vaporous conditions. A squirrel, unconcerned,
nimbly ran along a fence, jumping the finials like a gymnast. All
colour was drained by this tenacious fog. Turning, he went over to
the bookshelf and looked at the old cassettes, cds and LPs for music
to play, something to fit his mood. His emotional state honed in on
three cassettes by Pierre Flynn like a dry brush to an ink wash in a
Chinese bowl. Choosing the singer-songwriter's Jardins de Babylon,
he shook the tape in its case, savouring the plastic sound which was
as much a memory as the music itself. Placing the tape in his
machine, he pressed down on the aged button and listened as the rich
baritone voice carried him away with Savoir aimer.

One of his songs referred to the
world as “le monde de bascule.” He couldn't remember if it was on
this album, but he always liked the phrase. It would make a good
title for one of his paintings. Perhaps the one he was contemplating
of Sappho and Alcaeus.

Imagining Thérèse walking the
streets of Edinburgh filled him with a sense of calm. She could take
care of herself.

He heard the phone ring. By the time he
got halfway there, it had stopped. One ring. A common occurrence of
late. He had little use for phones, but he felt his need expanding
due to Thérèse and her leave taking. Perhaps he should give up his
resistance to technology and join the fast moving mob with their
devices and desires. As he stood looking down at the mute plastic
sphinx, its old fashioned twisted plastic cord hanging off the table
like a strand of DNA, he could almost feel the $2,000 cheque in his
wallet swelling with the pulse of digital currents. He was holding
onto the cheque until he cleared it with his conscience. For now, his
portrait commission was a mystery. He would wait for the morning's
revelations to unfold before moving back or forward, left or right.

*

When
Duncan had dropped Amelia off at the small florist business in
Westmount for 9 a.m., a business that wanted professional web page
translation work performed, there had been a subdued feeling in the
air. The traffic had been minimal. The pedestrians few. He felt he
had been turning the page on a rather peculiar day.

At the shop,
Julie informed him there was a message left on the answering machine
from his friend Yves Boisclair, the former bass player with The
Splices—the one who had had
the van, the connections and the garage to rehearse—who now ran a
shop selling old LPs and collectibles. The message related that a
batch of albums had come in, some Dvorak with Kubelik, works with Tamas Vasary and some old
Angels featuring Itzhak Perlman, items Yves knew Duncan was looking for. The
message ended with “vien t'en donc, mon tabarnak!” It was a
mutual light-hearted relationship. Duncan would inform Yves of
anything interesting in his latest book purchases, certain authors
Yves collected, certain editions he was looking for and Duncan would
often end his messages to Yves with “au plus crisse!”

He would
try to swing by Yves's place after dropping off the twines and ropes
to Mr. Wing. Already the day was beginning to become one of those
pages that fold out to reveal illustrative material within.

Tchaikovsky's
violin concerto played by Kyung Wha Chung, with Charles Dutoit
conducting the MSO commanded his speakers as he drove towards
Chinatown. It was Yves who told him the story of one of the musicians
of the Montreal Symphony back in the 1980s being a perfect mimic of
Charles Dutoit, providing comic relief for the other musicians in
the orchestra. He thought there must be a mimic in every business
with over thirty employees. He tried not to think of the ancient orchestra politics as he listened to the music.

Moving
his head from side to side to the sinuous lyricism, he felt he was
outlining a figure eight infinity.

At
the corner of St. Antoine and St. Pierre, he waited at a red light
while memories rose slowly like the melancholy middle movement of the
violin concerto. The towering hotels, the sprawling convention
centre, the stylish Caisse de dépôt et de placement du
Québec, and all the
redevelopment of boutique hotels and condos still had the feel of a
virtual rendering. Everything was so clean, neat and modern. Having
lived through the undeveloped and lean decades of the eighties and
nineties, it was still a revelation to behold. He thought
nostalgically of the little shops, the corner tobacconist, the
sandwich shop, the shoe and jewelry shops, and the old Tally Ho
bookshop with the veritably unmovable heavy-set cigar smoking
employee, who looked like he should be working at the horse track
taking bets, who chewed on his stogie which bookmarked every page of
every cheap paperback and pulp magazine with the aroma of astringent cigar smoke. The good old days. He started to feel like his Father. The
light turned green and he drove on passing what used to be old
restaurants, import businesses, Russell's Books, the Montreal Star
and Gazette buildings, the old fire hall and the pub where the
journalists would hang out. All gone but for memory. Stopping at
another red light at the corner of St. Urbain, he looked ahead at the
remnant block of crumbling early 20th
century three story buildings, a row of nostalgia, where Steve's
Music shop and Simon's
camera shop still held dominion over time. The future had yet to
level that block and throw up a forty floor hotel tower. He could
still drop by Steve's
and check out the guitars and feel he was that 16 year old rock star
wannabe back in 1974. The same old creaky uneven floors, the same
cramped space with every instrument and accessory, and possibly the
same employees living in a time warp.

The car
behind him honked. The light had turned catching him day-dreaming. He
took the left turn on St. Urbain, and as he approached Viger, he
looked up at the Holiday Inn lost in the fog—a building inspired
by classic Chinese architecture—on a site where he remembered a few
low buildings and parking lots. Montreal, he thought, must have so
very many hotel rooms. He parked the car on Viger and with a shopping
bag in each hand, made his way towards Mr. Wing's business, the
string handles digging into his skin. The receptionist informed
Duncan that Mr. Wing was not in the office at the moment, so he left
his shopping bags with the young woman who he felt smiled almost
sadly, as if she knew all about his slipping business and Mr. Wing's
continued support, even though such supplies could be had much
cheaper. Duncan smiled and thanked her, a tinge of self-consciousness
overcoming him, feeling like the poor relative. He had included a
slim, soft cover book on chess which he thought Mr. Wing would find
of interest. Duncan knew he had a large collection of books on the
game. If he already had a book that Duncan offered, he never let him know. Always a
handwritten note of thanks with the cheque in an envelope addressed
by hand.

At the
corner of La Gauchtière and St. Urbain, waiting to cross, he stood gazing up at a
corner building. He remembered when Yiyin had taken him up the stairs
to the art supplies store. On the first landing an open door had
revealed a windowless room with numerous elderly Chinese playing
Mahjong. It was a vivid memory. The aged players nosily mixing the
tiles and talking before turning and silently looking at the young
Caucasian man and young Chinese woman staring at them from the
shadows. The mixing of the tiles and the talking had resumed once
they moved on to the art store, no doubt spiced with comments on the
unusual visitation: 'What was the world coming to?' 'In my day,
unheard of.' The year must have been 1978. Duncan still had the
bamboo holders, inks, and brushes they had bought that day, though he
imagined the ink must have hardened in the blue and white porcelain
container by now.

He
decided to continue along La Gauchetière enjoying the colourful
window displays and the signage. Many new ventures with some old ones
here and there. At the corner of Clark, he stood looking across at
the modern corner building where the Tean Hong Café used to be, the
restaurant where they had had many a dimsum and seemingly endless
cups of green tea. It had burnt down long ago and this new structure
had risen. It was as if the café had never existed. He still had the
plastic chopsticks with the restaurant name though. Souvenirs from
the past.

“Excuse
me sir,” a voice said, “are you looking for a certain shop?”

Duncan
turned to see his questioner, a pleasant young woman probably the age
of Yiyin when they were together. “Oh, thank you, no,” he
managed haltingly, “I'm just looking . . for the past.”

The
young woman nodded thoughtfully before walking away into the foggy
morning, the short melodramatic scene imperceptibly fading with every
step.

Thursday, January 24, 2013

Adorable Hugh had tried to enjoy his
quiet evening at home. Often when left alone, he would sit on the
chair by the front window, prop himself up on the sill, and watch the
neighbourhood dogs and their tethered humans. Many he knew by scent.
Others he had met nose to nose. He had learned not to draw attention
to himself. No barking. Such behaviour was quite immature. He
remembered travelling in the car with Duncan and Amelia, and, coming
to a stop, had noticed a tiny fluffy thing, sitting on a human, its
little paws on the side window, yapping away at the dog on the
sidewalk, a Great Dane. How embarrassing. There is observation, and
there is . . . well, he didn't know, but barking from behind
windows is just simply not done.

He sighed. It had been a rather tedious
evening alone. Nothing to see out the windows for some reason, and
only the ticking of that clock in the kitchen over his bowl. At least
they had left enough nibbles and water. He sighed into his soft dog
blanket on his soft dog bed, and looked up at them, huddled under
their blankets.

Amelia was thinking of Mary's
retirement revelation. Mary had wanted to sound her out, see how she
took the news. It wouldn't be for a year, she had said, but she
thought it would be best to prepare for her departure. Edward would
understand, she knew, but it would create a dilemma. Who would
replace her? Mary had wondered if she and Duncan might consider
moving into the coach house and looking after Edward like they
sometimes did when she was in Florida. She hadn't told Duncan yet.
She wanted time to think. How could they possibly replace Mary? She
had become family. The more Amelia thought about the coming change,
the more she saw themselves moving into the coach house and taking
care of Edward. It would be the best for all. It was fortunate they
had not purchased a home as yet. She would discuss it with Duncan
tomorrow after dinner. Opening her eyes, she could just make out it
was near one a.m. She would be tired for her nine o'clock meeting
with a client.

Stretching out his foot into the cold
nether regions of the bed, Duncan lay on his back and tried to clear
his mind of all the flotsam and jetsam of the past few days. Think of
tomorrow he thought. Think of tomorrow. He had to make a delivery of
twines and ropes to Mr. Wing in Chinatown, a loyal customer from his
father's day. It had been months since he'd last seen Mr. Wing.
Always good for a word of wisdom or an occasional pun. Chinatown in
the morning, followed by Noel Welwyn Gough in the afternoon to browse
the books of Lafcadio & Co. He breathed in deeply and
sighed softly thinking it should unfold like a simple turn of a page.
Verso, recto, and home again. No more gallivanting about in the fog.
Two simple events. Two purchases. And now, perchance, to dream. What
did those distant navvies take to get to sleep? He imagined himself a
sailor in his bunk on a Dutch galliot on a calm sea, the unknown
medicine slowly taking effect. After a few minutes without success,
Duncan rolled to his side and slipped his arm around Amelia's waist,
and, falling into the scent of her, was adrift, at sea, asleep.

*

Souvenirs of the Vortex?
The Vortex of Souvenirs? Such were the suggested book titles
that his mind was . . curating. Curating! What an absurd abuse of a
word. I curated my breakfast this morning: fresh coffee,
croissant with kiwi slices. I shall curate the garden this
afternoon. Pavor Loveridge drank his strong coffee, fingering a small
packet of zucchero di canna, his laptop open before him. The morning
was dull, cool, and a drizzle continued to fall; drops of water
periodically dripped from the peak of the garden gnome's red,
slightly bent, hat. He knew he should write Mélisande but the
demands of his agent and publisher for a new book was, he felt,
etching age lines into his face. Those wince marks at the sides of
one's eyes, crow's feet. No, nothing so visual, more like the lines
of agony, the agony of disbelief. The six books he had written felt
like stepping stones beside an infinity pool leading to the edge; the
drop is there, just over the line, the line of printed type which
hovered invisibly on the empty page before him.

He looked to the lower right
hand of his screen to see it was 7:35 a.m. Mélisande was undoubtedly
asleep. What a strange world. If Earth began to spin faster, how
would we still sleep our eight hours in shifts. We're all on shift
work for the world. Gaia our overseer. She doesn't seem pleased with
our work of late. We've been helping ourselves to the office
supplies. Could that be the book he should write? A little departure
into speculative fiction? The Vortex of Souvenirs?

The letter for Mélisande he
was contemplating would take a week to arrive. Or more. Perhaps an
email would be the right choice. No fancy stationery and interesting
stamps with their cancellation, no smell of coffee in the paper, no
whiff of the harbour under the stamp, but a direct, officious rather
bland form of communication, the email. He opened his account and
avoided looking at the messages with their enquiries, and began to
write her a letter.

Dearest Mélisande,

I hope this finds you well.
There is not a day that passes without you in my thoughts. Your love
and companionship, your intelligence and knowledge are qualities that
keep me inspired. Being away from you, my life is the poorer.
Needless to say, I find myself quite alone. This is good for my work,
and perhaps good for a renewed perspective and appreciation of life,
but it is a challenge.

I am glad you have a good
position. I am
content in knowing your workplace affords a sense of contentment. In
my experience, such places are rare, quite rare. It relieves me of much
worry knowing your life is well-found.

I had planned to write with
pen and paper, to scrape, scrape, scrape with my mordant pen as it
were, and mail you a proper letter, but the factor of time has
pressed down upon me and I have relinquished the pen for the
keyboard. The better to reach you sooner. How did they manage in the
past? Months might have passed before letters arrived. Lives changed
in the interim. Intelligences rendered obsolete.

Travel in our modern world
is so different. In the past I could write to you that I miss reading
the local papers, or listening to my favourite French CBC radio
shows, but now I can use the Internet to be connected with home.
Montreal is but a few keystrokes away. I can see what weather befalls
the city, what Aislin and other cartoonists are holding up for ridicule,
and what artistic endeavours have risen to the top of the
journalistic consciousness. I do though, miss the ease of merely turning the
radio on and instantly hearing the rich deep voices of the French CBC
radio announcers. I once asked a friend who works there why every
radio announcer has such a deep rich voice, and he said, jokingly,
smoking and a full life. When I was younger, I had applied for a job
at the French CBC radio. I imagine, my voice was not rich enough.

Everywhere you look, statues
and clocks, statues and clocks. Could be a title for a book. The
clocks on churches and city buildings remind me of the works of the
symbolist artist de Chirico. The city of Trieste has a rougher edge
compared to Florence and Venice. A true working port city. There is
be some sort of coffee expo or convention here soon. Trieste is, I
think, the major import centre for coffee. They take it seriously. No
milky dribble after eleven in the morning. They must roll their eyes
when they travel. Blessedly, haven't seen a Tim's or a Starby's, though something tells me there might be a golden arch
lurking.

As you know I am not staying
in the city itself, which is fine by me. Too much distraction. I am here,
ostensibly, to write a first draft of my next novel. The house
belongs to a Triestine academic who is teaching in China and won't be
back until sometime at the end of July next year, so the spring would
be the best time to visit. The house is in Opicina and is quite
modern and has all the conveniences. The garden comes with its own
gnome. A gnome with a book. The owner also has a small flat in
Trieste but he has rented that out. My staying here is a favour in a
way through my agent. I just have to pay for the utilities and take
care of the property. House sitting. I remember it well. He has left
his little car for my use which has been extremely handy since the
railway to Trieste has been undergoing repairs.

I've had a request for a
travel piece by an American magazine. My agent happened to drop my
name and location into a cocktail party conversation and voila, a
request for so many words. Trieste has been done however, and I feel
I should explore further afield. I have made a tentative trip across
the border into Slovenia. Being part of the EU, the border passing
was fairly smooth. Driving with plates from just across the border
helped. I was stopped for a brief enquiry, and being Canadian, and
having the first names Pavor Kristof, gave them more to think about
than usual though.

When I was younger, I had
thought of adopting a new name. I used to avail myself of my Mother's
scholarly library of books, and the names I remember thinking of
were, Perceval, Panurge, Porthos and Pangloss! I do have a
distinct memory of reading Rabelais when young, the chapter where
Pantagruel visits a library and provides a list of titles from the
catalogue. Every possible target is satirized often scatalogically. I
always remember the rather sedate title, The Hotchpot of
Hypocrites. I must have been about fourteen, 1974, I had gone
with my Mother into the Flammarion Bookshop on University Avenue—I
know, you were only 4, before your time and long gone—and while my
Mother was looking at dictionaries (and my Father was probably at
Curly Joe's Steakhouse just a few doors away) I picked up Dumas's Les
Trois Mousquetaires and thought perhaps Porthos would indeed do.
That may have been the root of my becoming a writer. A desire to
change my name. When I think of the four names I contemplated, I feel
I have a touch of each in my character. I'm sure you could tell me
which one is the dominate trait if any. Or am I dominated by my being
a Taurus? Who knows.

I have a few items I always
travel with: your picture, my pens, a small bottle of Quink, and that
bookmark from the day I bought the Dumas. On the back of the Librarie
Flammarion bookmark there are lines to pencil out “Mes prochaines
lectures” with three columns for 'auteurs, titres, et notes.' My
list of books and authors are of course, youthful: Poe, Conrad,
Melville. . . . The bottle of Quink that I purchased over twenty
years ago I've rarely dipped into. It is more of a talisman. It
worries me though. Evaporation has carried 99% of the ink away. One
day, I fear, I shall awake and find it dry. Perhaps that will be the
day I am struck by an apoplexy like something out a ghost story by
Henry James. I have always thought that Robert Louis Stevenson's
death was one of the great apoplexies in the world of writers.
Stevenson's last words were something to the effect of 'I feel
something strange. Do I look as if something is wrong with me?' I
know this must be morbid to you. Forgive me.

But back to my little
sojourn into Slovenia. We must visit when you come. I just did an
explorative drive in a small circle essentially. First to the Skocjan
Caves and the park around them near Divica, and then back towards the
Lipizzan horse breeding farm. We can go horse back riding. (I haven't
been on a horse since I was a child. Do we all secretly feel we are
horse whisperers?) The horse breeding started in 1580! Giordano Bruno
was in Toulouse, Montaigne finishing up his Essays, and the Mother of
Quevedo was experiencing birth pains. Quite a fin-de-siècle. On the
road from the caves to the horses, is the old town of Lokev, its red
tiled roofs and white buildings nestled in the valley of low rolling
green hills. Picturesque. We must visit. There is a museum in an old
Fort Tower built by the Venetians I believe. A defense against the
Turks. Late 15th century. Takes you back doesn't it? There
is a bar underneath for a refreshing beer, or two.

I had an unusual experience
over the border. I chose to drive the smaller road instead of the
very modern highway. It was the scenic route as my Father would say
when we used to get lost on our holidays. The scenic route. And
indeed it was. The road was to pass the towns of Merce, Povir, and
Gorenje pri Divica before reaching the area of the caves at Divica.
Passing the town of Merce (the orange tiled roofs and white buildings
are to be found in each village) I followed a small road which my map, speechless and dumb as I am, said would bring me to an abandoned church on a hill. I lost my
way. The church was unreachable with my little suburban car.
Beautiful countryside though. I retraced my route back to Merce and
for some reason I turned up a certain street. I don't know what made
me think to turn up that street. My Father always said trust your
instinct. So I turned, and came across a sort of flea market selling
vegetables, fruit, woodwork, and some household items and junk.
Amongst the junk I came across a slim volume which had some water damage to
the back cover, but overall, was intact. It was underneath some old
bibles and books in I imagine Slovenian. I managed to converse with the young sales woman in my basic Italian and bought some fruit, a
little wood stool, and the book. I wasn't sure what it was at first,
I just slung it in the back seat with my purchases and off I went.
When I drove back through Trieste in my circle home, I stopped for a
refreshment and looked at the book further: The Kasidah of Haji
Abdu El-Yezdi / A Lay of the Higher Law / Translated and Annotated /
by / His Friend and Pupil / F. B. / London: Privately Printed. No
date or publisher. On the flyleaf, an inscription: For
Daisy, 'Reason is life's sole arbiter, the magic labyrinth's single
clue.' R. F. B.

I had
thought of visiting the antiquarian bookshop so wonderfully situated at
the end of the Via del Rosario not far from the Roman theatre—a
shop we must visit—but I held off, thinking I could research it
myself. It astounds me that it appears to be a copy of a work by
Richard Francis Burton. He published it as if it was merely a
translation but it was his work. The edition is very rare for only a
few copies were issued without the name of the publisher—Quaritch—on
the title page. The inscription seems to be for the sister of an
artist who visited Trieste and produced paintings of Burton. I have
been reading about her and supposedly she was a close friend, and
when Burton died, she experienced his ghostly visitation, so she knew when
she awoke that he had died in the night. And she was correct. Such
stories. Such stories. And how it found its way into a pile of odds
and ends in a small town in Slovenia is a mystery. Perhaps, to follow
the line, it was the spirit of Burton or Daisy who led me to the
site. Stories upon stories.

I am so
sorry. I have written far too much. I may have lost you on the
border!

I have
been mulling over what to write for my next novel. This morning I was
even considering a possible foray into speculative fiction, but I
feel I will stick to my idea of writing about love and life. I have
had a title in mind for some time: The Under-Glasse. My
publisher will probably baulk at the name. It comes from Herrick. I
didn't bring many books with me since I have my tablet, Kobo, and
laptop, but I did bring my Anchor Books copy of The Complete
Poetry of Robert Herrick. Something about the smell of old Anchor
books is intoxicating. I bought this one at that shop Lafcadio &
Co.

The
title is from a poem by Herrick. I shall type it out for you.

The Houre-glasse

The Houre-glasse, which
there ye see

With Water fill'd, (Sirs,
credit me)

The humour was, (as I have
read)

But Lover's tears
inchristalled.

Which, as they drop by
drop doe passe

From th'upper to the
under-glasse,

Do in a trickling manner
tell,

(By a watrie syllable)

That lover's tears in
life-time shed,

Do restless run when they
are dead.

I send
you all my love and hope all is well.

Pavor

He directed the cursor over
the 'send' button, hovering for a brief moment, a hesitation of his
editor's mind, but pressed down and off his letter went into the
digital ether.

Saturday, January 19, 2013

Midnight slipped into the new day as
Mélisande Bramante set her alarm o'clock for 7:30 a.m. Clio, her seven year old
orange tabby, stretched out on the end of the bed,her
paws resting on the cd case of Plans
by Death Cab for Cutie.

Mélisande
adjusted her earbuds. snuggled under the covers, and smoothed out a
fresh page of her journal. Clio opened and closed her eyes content
that she was finally settling down.

Tuesday, October 22nd,
12:02 a.m.I had planned a
quiet night at home; so much for best laid plans.

Today was like a C major triad: first
the arrival of Pavor's book of poetry (Alacrity and Karma on a Yacht
off Palmyra!) arrived in the mail, then the husband of Amelia dropped
by with a Latin text for me to decipher, followed on his heels by
Jerome who was in a state of longing and uncertainty. Where did I read that three occurrences are considered lucky? I suggested to Jerome we talk over dinner. He picked me up after work in his little car. I suggested we
go to Mnemosyne for a
meal. Monday would be quiet. I like their booths and the vegetarian
food has only improved. Butternut squash pasta dish was very good.
Stuffed. Drank far too much wine.

Pavor's new book was a surprise.
Personal to the point of embarrassment. His dedication to me quotes Giordano Bruno which is
perhaps typical of him. Seems he has used our walks about Montreal to
frame a number of poems. I seem to be his guide!

He sent a copy to Jerome
as well. Who else? We talked about the book over dinner. Jerome has only read one poem. The obscurity of the
publisher, Oxtoby & Snoad
based in England,was
a relief. I hope the print run was small.

Jerome said he was sure
Pavor was not running away from me, but only from the religious trappings of
marriage. Pavor's Catholic upbringing has driven him away from the concepts of sacred ritual. Such is Jerome's opinion. Pavor's Mother was Catholic, from Prague, and his Father Anglican, from Montreal. I agreed with Jerome when we discussed the tug of war within Pavor's upbringing. A conflicted writer. How unique. I told him Pavor invited me to Italy. He said I should go. Just the thing. Maybe I could overcome his resistance and get married there in an ancient chapel, Venice, Florence or Trieste,
if such a thing was possible. Jerome knows how to cheer me up, ever the romantic.

We talked of Thérèse
and her mysterious, though not unusual, departure. I heard from a mutual friend that she was seen in Edinburgh. I told Jerome. He was excited by the news. He asked me to pursue it and find out more. I promised. A day of demands.His painting, he
said, was passionless at the moment. He said he felt like he had been
rowing long and hard, and now he was just resting on his oars. He is
not happy with the painting he has been working on. He said he'll
probably leave it unfinished and use the faces for another picture.
He has been thinking of an Alma-Tadema painting he'd like to do:
Sappho and Alcaeus. . He explained the painting to me and said
he would modernize it by having the figures in modern dress and the
writing on the marble would be modern graffiti. Irony has nothing to do with it he says. He loathes irony. Thérèse to be Sappho? I didn't ask.I do love his painting of me. His reproduction of Marianne Stokes'
Melisande without the
interesting long sleeved blouse, but revealing my tattoos. It is always a
topic of conversation when I have people over. Jerome said the
Alma-Tadema would have to wait for he has a commission. A portrait.
He said he wasn't sure whether to take it, though it would pay well.
I told him to take it. He has to make a living.

When he drove me home, he
thanked me for listening and for relieving his sense of dread. There was one of those
awkward moments, the wine and emotions had swirled together and we kissed each other on the cheeks, embracing
perhaps rather longer than usual. His cheeks slightly rough and smelling of almonds. I made some chamomile tea and tried
to read Wilkie Collins' Armadale. Didn't get very far. Took a bath and
listened to music. Clio being affectionate.

I haven't had a chance to
look at the Latin text that Duncan dropped off. I left it at work in
the laptop bag. Will try to give it some time tomorrow if there is a
slow moment. Duncan is his gentleman self, and he still looks youthful for his age. If he wasn't married.... Haven't seen Amelia in months. Should try to connect.

Palmyra. When I first
read Pavor's title, I thought of Lady Hestor Stanhope. Shipwrecked
and forever changed, tamquam tabulata naufragii. Or was her
trajectory formed in the luxury of her past? That early political
background and the loss of her future husband? I dipped into her Life
and Letters which Duncan had sold me a few years ago. I
reread that letter from 1813 that opens: “Dear Wynn, --Without
joking, I have been crowned Queen of the Desert under the triumphal
arch at Palmyra!” Not a sentence likely to be repeated again. Pavor
knows I was interested in Stanhope and have this book. I wonder if he
is playing with this? But a 'yacht off Palmyra?' Perhaps if and when
I continue reading his book, it will become apparent. Stanhope died so alone. From a wealthy elite family at the top of the social scale in England, to a deserted fort in the desert, alone, all possessions taken. Could she have foreseen?
Clio rose and arched her back before stepping delicately towards Mélisande. She circled herself into a cozy nook beside her. A sign she was ready to sleep. Lights out please. Mélisande gave her a kiss, put her journal and music away and picked up Pavor's book off her bed side table. Opening it, she read the third poem:

And yet you guide me to this spot, this field-

Stone wall, whose gate—of horn or ivory--

Remains as those within, it does not yield.

What private consolations would I see

If only I could pass? What acts of patience?

What modes of self-reliant reticence?

In looking through the window in the wall

(Much like the horse that's blinkered on the street)

Its iron work as black as cannon ball,

I feel the rough-hewn history's latent heat,

So cold, so obsolete. I call his name,

'Dollier,' but no one hears my melodrame.

Unless the stones themselves absorb the sound,

Repositories of syllabic time.

The clock from 1701 goes round

To timelessness within. The minutes climb,

And fall. The ancient clock's for you and I

Yet few remark its face against the sky.

Well, fourteen minutes have elapsed. So much

For the regressus in infinitum.

Reality's no paradox to touch.

This circular volition and the hum

Of life turns round their tended turtle peace,

This seamless Séminaire de Saint-Sulpice.

She placed the book under the bed, and turned out the light. She rested her arm around Clio hoping she had left the day's troubles on the page.

Wednesday, January 16, 2013

Edward's synoptic tale of his distant
relative settled upon each of his listeners with differing
reverberations. Noel crossed his legs and sat back with a sense of
loss. Why hadn't Edward told him about his relative long ago? This
was his field of study. It could have been an interesting book. He felt
left in the cold, forgotten, rebuffed. But his mind, resilient and mature, shifted. He was
still young. There might still be a book behind this picture. He
envisioned a finely printed volume bound in leather, all edges gilt,
front board blind-stamped in gilt with heretical Rosicrucian symbols.
Duncan, meanwhile, was trying to tie the story up with his Latin text and was
constructing romantic tales of chivalry and courtly spies in The
Hague. Backstabbing, slander, capes, scabbards and false evidence.
For Amelia, having known the story, she wondered what happened to his
wife back in London, and their children. For Mary, she too had heard
the story before, and having dusted William Philip Seymour and his
eyes and the ancient picture frame which surrounded him for so many
years, all thoughts of intrigue and romance were as evanescent as a
single snowflake melting on a warm windshield.

“Duncan, if you could come with me to
the study, we will uncover Noel's Chapman," Edward said, touching Noel's shoulder as he passed.

“So, where have you been staying
while you've been visiting Montreal?” Amelia asked.

“The first night I stayed at my
daughter's condominium," Noel said. "A small, but very efficient and modern
dwelling. But my dear daughter is, like my wife, a parsimonious jam
spreader, so off I went to the University Club where jam does flow
like the wine of ancient Rome.” He watched their reactions to such
a statement, enjoying his little foray into humour. Winking at them
he admitted he was only pulling their legs—he quite preferred
marmalade. Noel welcomed their laughter never knowing if his humour
was effective. Timing, he realized, was everything. “But now,” he
continued, “for a treat, my daughter has set me up at the newly
refurbished Ritz-Carlton for my last five nights.” He rolled
his r on the name of the hotel. “It is indeed, very elegant. I fear
my wife will be quite jealous.” After a pause, thinking of the
luxury of his future abode, an idea occurred to him. “I should have
you all to dinner. My treat. I could make reservations for say . . .
Thursday night. I am sure my daughter would enjoy meeting you. It
could be a celebration of Edward's 92nd birthday. How
does that sound?”

Amelia could see no reason to refuse
such a generous and rare opportunity. Mary likewise agreed.

“Fine, I shall let you young women
surprise your men with the news,” he said helping himself to a
small piece of short bread.

“How does your daughter like
Montreal?” Mary asked.

“Very much, very much. However, a
promotion has been offered and she will be working in Paris come the
new year. My wife is pleased she'll be closer to home.”

Noel shifted in his seat, his eyes upon
the painting over the fireplace. “Well,” he began hesitantly, “my
daughter's surprise was fresh news to my ears when I arrived. The
underlining reason for my coming to Montreal was to attend a memorial
service for an old school chum who passed away of a heart attack in
August. So, a memorial service, a family visit, and a re-connection
with Edward.” Noel avoided the one-stone-three-birds phrase that almost reached the tip of his tongue. He looked at Mary and Amelia to gauge their
interest, and then continued. “My late friend, Frederick Jones,
came to Montreal in the early 1970s to teach History at Lower Canada
College. He was well-loved. I heard many warm appreciations from
fellow teachers and former students.”

“We're sorry for the loss of your
friend,” Amelia said.

Noel nodded his head and said thank
you, and wondered if he should continue spinning out a thread or two
with this story of loss, but was relieved when Amelia bridged his
story with one from Duncan's past.

“Yes, it was about a year ago,”
Amelia said. “Duncan noticed the name of an old friend in the
obituaries.”

Duncan, hearing his voice being
mentioned as he and Edward returned with Chapman's The Shadow of
Night, said “What's this about
an old friend?”

“Your friend
David, the one who went to LCC.” Amelia said, telling Duncan of
Noel's multiple reasons for visiting Montreal.

“Yes, David
Ashemore. We were best of friends when very young. His house
backed onto a small local library branch and we would go there after
school to take out Tintin books, which were our great preoccupation
during the first and second years of elementary school.” Duncan sat
down, placing the Chapman on his lap, its gilt edges glowing in the
warm lamplight. “I believe that LCC was looking for students and we
both took the entrance exam, and both passed. David was a single
child. His parents were educated and I imagine had funds to send
him. My dear parents had hardly passed high school, and funds or
knowledge of scholarships was beyond them as far as I know.” Duncan
felt like he was one of those tiresome unreliable narrators of modern
books, for his memories of that distant time were honestly quite
vague. Did his parents say no, or was he given the last word, and,
thinking of his brothers, agree to forgo the private school?

“After
David left for LCC, strangely enough, I never saw him again. Our
orbits were forever changed. It wasn't until I came across a paper
left open to the obituaries in a busy coffee shop, that his oblique
circle finally crossed mine again. It was one of those
'suddenly' obituaries.”

Noel shifted his
legs and asked Duncan if it was a tragedy or natural causes.

“Honestly, I
really don't know,” he said, looking down at the book and running
his right hand over the supple dark green leather. “I attended the
visitation at the funeral home. Sad in itself, but more so due to the
lack of . . . visitors. It reminded me of one of those authors
like Edgar Allan Poe who died with a paltry show of mourners at the
graveside. I arrived near the end of the time allotted and my name
was the only signature in the book. Within the room, I found only a
young woman sitting in a chair.”

There was a
dramatic pause as everyone sipped their tea, and looked at Duncan
with interest.

“Her name was
hard to forget, Tess, Tess Sinclair. She said she was a friend of
David's and was hoping to meet his family and colleagues. My story
was of course brief and of little relevance but she said she
appreciated all she could learn.” Duncan placed the book on the
side table and picked up his teacup, sipping while thinking of where
to go with this story.

“It was a bit
odd, wasn't it?” Amelia said.

“Yes, it was. A
bit awkward, yes.” Duncan said. “I began asking questions of her.
How did David die? What did he do for a living? Was he married? Did
he have any living relatives? She told me he had been single, a
researcher and had been ill with cancer. No living relatives had
attended. She had been there all afternoon. Very few people had
visited she said. A handful of colleagues had briefly appeared but
didn't stay long, and were not forthcoming.”

“That is indeed a
sad tale,” Noel offered to the silence that followed Duncan's
story. “He may have well been a student of my friend Frederick
Jones. A small world, a small world.”

“I had had such
high expectations of his life and career,” Duncan continued.
“Seeing his name in print made me feel a part of myself had
died, that wistful, innocent youth." Duncan looked up towards the ceiling and stared at the linear shadows cast by the crown molding. "I remember we used to spin
ourselves around and around, and then fall upon the lawn in dizziness, the world itself spinning within our heads, our thoughts overcome with the vastness of the universe."

“That was the day
of the accident too, wasn't it?” Amelia asked, prompting him back to reality.

“Yes, it was an
odd day all round. When I left the funeral home, the parked car in
front of me backed up and hit our car. The driver got out and was apologetic. He wanted to make amends for the slight damage to the bumper without bothering the police. So we exchanged names and
numbers. After many weeks, I thought I would phone him to see if he
was willing to pay for the minor expenses.” Duncan paused to finish
his tea. “The phone number was no longer in use. And the name,
well, I couldn't find a trace.”

Friday, January 11, 2013

Mrs. Shimoda prepared an early light
meal, a miso soup with arame and mushrooms. The rich aromatic broth
simmered as she listened to the local radio. The weather was first
and foremost on the minds of people, so the news led with a
report from the streets of Montreal on the reaction of citizens to
the persistent fog. She turned the radio off and began to gently
ladle the soup into her special bowl, the last of a set her husband
had acquired many, many years ago. She heard the light footsteps of
her lodger above, Amelia and her 'adorable Hugh' as they descended
the stairs to the front door on their way out for a walk. Clockwork
is comforting to animals too, she thought.

Sitting at her small kitchen table, she
sipped her soup while thinking of the jigsaw puzzle on the dining
room table. She didn't want to finish it too quickly. A prolonged
enjoyment came with visualization over time. There was great pleasure
to be found in standing for a few moments over the puzzle, and, with
fresh eyes, overcome the resistance within the diversity of shapes and colours, and firmly snap the piece into place. A modest fulfilment. A modest contentment.

Looking out the window, the colourful
leaves were falling, slowly, desultorily, as if the fog provided
a buoyancy for a soft landing as they made their descent. It could be
an early winter. She would have to finish putting the garden to bed.
The squirrels had been active, digging in her pots again, hiding
their precious reserves. She did, however, enjoy watching their
movements. Especially when they secreted their peanuts or sunflower
seeds in her small lawn. The first tentative search, then deciding on
a location, the vigorous hole digging with the shoulders involved,
followed by the reverse action of pushing the nut down and in,
followed by the act of camouflage as they delicately finessed the
grass shoots with their little, yet versatile fingers, in such a way
that reminded her of a hair dresser. It also reminded her, inversely, of raking clean the squirrel footprints in the sand of her little zen garden. The subtle curves around the rocks and stones were part
of the natural setting, and subject to wildlife, leaves, twigs, and
freshly fallen snow, always in transition, like life itself. Such was the nature of her small backyard.

She heated water for green tea while
she washed the dishes, envisioning the completed lower right corner of
the puzzle.

*

Duncan stood on the
patchwork cement sidewalk in front of Strand Cordage Ltd.
waiting for Amelia to pick him up. The strangeness of the weather and
the older architecture on the obscured half-deserted street must have
touched a deep memory, for Duncan felt like he was a character in an
old original Star Trek episode. He saw himself as the character
Bones, abandoned on Earth in the 1920s. The phrases Dam it Jim,
I'm a Doctor not an engineer, and Beam me up Scottie,
flitted through his brain. He rolled his eyes and paced back and
forth kicking spent cigarette butts and pebbles to the curb. Looking
up, he made out their car coming towards him, the fog dispersing in a
way which made him think of a street scene in Blade Runner.

“How was your day?”
Amelia enquired as Duncan secured his seat belt.

“Unusual, my love, like the weather. How was yours, everything alright with George?”

“George is fine. He had a
shampoo and a trim so he's content.”

“A spa day for George.
Sounds like a P. G. Wodehouse title. 'A Spa Day for George.'”

“So what was so unusual? A
big sale?”

“No, unfortunately, not a
big sale. I came across an odd Latin text though and decided to drop
it off with Mélisande to see if she could . . .” he was going to
say translate but juggling words in his head came out with,
“tell me what it is. Then I dropped by to see Tom to ask him about
what I found in the kitchen, and finally a brief visit with Rebecca
to ask about the watermark on the paper of the Latin text.”

“There's a scratch on the frames of your
glasses.”

He told her about his fall,
his lunch at Café Hermeticum, the painting, and then he
remembered about seeing the young man in the Redpath Library and told
her all about him.

“This morning on my way to
the vet, a car just like the one Natasha mentioned pulled up beside
us at a red light. George got a look at the driver and made a strange
little noise. All I saw was the car drive off. Maybe our so called
homeless man is really the bohemian artist, boyfriend of Thérèse.”

“Did you follow him?”

Amelia came to an Arrêt
sign. “I'm not Miss Marple. Anyway, in all likelihood we'll
probably see the car and the young man all over the place now.”

“Is that how it goes?”

“Probabilities, my love.
Ask Tom, I'm sure he knows all about it.”

Amelia was so much better at
math, and most things, that he didn't really doubt her.

*

“I would like to raise a
glass to Mary and Amelia for all their devotion and hard work in
caring for Uncle Edward and George. To Mary and Amelia,” Duncan
said, Amelia gently touching his foot with hers in affection.

“Hear, hear,” Noel
intoned.

They all drank from their
glasses and resumed their meal. Then Noel stood up and raised his glass. "A toast to Edward and his upcoming 92nd birthday, may he let us know where this fountain of youth resides."
"Thank you all, you're very kind. This herring in mustard
sauce is quite superb Mary, quite superb,” Edward said.

“It was a last minute challenge to find, but I'm glad you are enjoying the meal," Mary said. "I didn't want to be fobbed off with a bit of menhaden. True herrings if you please. We do have very good fish shops in the city so it was not too difficult to find."

Amelia didn't know what menhaden was but she thought it would be a good time to change the direction of the dinner conversation and ask a question of their guest. "So where were you born,
Noel?”

“Humble origins, my dear.
Seventy-two odd years ago in a small village called Bala in north
central Wales, on the edge of Snowdonia National Park. Picturesque,
untouched, pristine in memory. It is beautifully situated on a lake,
Llyn Tegid, which gives it a feeling of a Scottish landscape.
I have many fond memories, many fond memories. It was a village lost
in time somewhat, complete with its own mound, or moat-hill behind
the grammar school. As children we used to pretend we were Roman
soldiers battling for the top.” He paused, placing his fork and
knife down, and picking up his glass. “I was seven when Lake Bala
froze over. That was a cold winter. I remember the wonder of it but
my parents must have experienced the concerns of privation. The war
was over but commodities were no doubt still scarce.” He took a sip
of wine. “Today it is thriving as a tourist location. Water sports,
hiking, and there is a small-gauge Railway for scenic views along the
lake.”

“Sounds lovely,” Amelia
said.

“You must visit someday.
If you're in the area, you won't be disappointed.”

“From Bala to an Oxford
professorship,” Duncan said. “I always enjoy hearing stories of
people coming from small towns and villages and achieving greatness
in the greater world. How did you find your way into Renaissance
studies at Oxford?”

“Greatness might be too
strong a word for my achievements, but I was fortunate to receive
scholarships when young and the path towards Oxford was not hindered
as it can be for some. As for my area of study, I was drawn as a
youth to the literary works and the history of the period, Spenser,
Sidney and their brethren. My last book was a slim critical edition
of George Chapman's The Shadow of Night published
by Oxtoby and Snoad,,
issued in a small edition, in a fine binding. A difficult book to lay
one's hands on though I sent a copy to Edward here, so you may be able to peruse its contents if Edwards allows.My wife is the greater scholar though.
She is younger and still active. She has a book coming out soon, a
critical biography of Lady Mary Wroth.”

“I'm not familiar with the
name,” Duncan said.”

“She is lesser known to be
sure, but very interesting. The daughter of Robert Sidney. A fine
poet and according to my wife, a feisty little thing, though don't
quote me on that,” he added with a wink. “I know a few of her
sonnets, let me see:

'In this strange
labyrinth how shall I turn?

Ways are on all sides
while the way I miss;

If to the right hand,
there in love I burn;

Let me go forward,
therein danger is;'”

Noel
gestured with a sweep of his hand to his right where Amelia sat, and
then a sweep of his hand to his left where Duncan sat.

“'If
to the left, suspicion hinders bliss,

Let me turn back, shame
cries I ought return

Nor faint, though crosses
with my fortunes kiss;

Stand still is harder,
although sure to mourn,

Thus let me take the
right, or left hand way;

Go forward, or stand
still, or back retire;

I must these doubts
endure without allay

Or help, but travail find
for my best hire;

Yet that which most my
troubled sense doth move,

Is to leave all, and take
the thread of love.'”

“Bravo,
bravo,” Edward said raising his glass.

They all
raised their glasses while Noel graciously nodded his head. “If not
for my wife, such words would have been unknown to my heart.”

“Well,
now I will have to do some reading about this Lady Mary Wroth,”
Amelia said.

“Yes,
do so, there is much to be enjoyed.”

“My
being a translator, I realize I am a bit of a collector of words, so
I know that the word labyrinth was used to designate maze in the past
and was often interchangeable. Perhaps it is only now that the
labyrinth has fully defined its usage as there has been a
'renaissance' in labyrinth walking over the last fifty years or so.”

“Has
there indeed,” Noel said.

“Our
friend Mélisande, a religious studies librarian, is also a labyrinth
facilitator, and Duncan and I have walked labyrinths with her as a
meditative practice. One curving path in and the same path out. It's
a very calming and peaceful experience. No forks in the road, no
decisions as to right or left.”

“I've
never walked a labyrinth,” Noel said, looking up at the ceiling as
if searching for a memory. “It does sound like a lovely way to
clear the mind, quite different from getting lost in Hampton Court Maze.”

“Yes,
today does seem rather like being in the Highlands doesn't it. I have been here a week exploring the art galleries and museums. This morning I
went out to breakfast with my daughter Elizabeth in Old Montreal and
when we passed the Nelson Column, the one-armed duffer was shrouded
above, couldn't get a glimpse of him.”

“The
real Nelson is in the nearby history museum. The statue I mean. They
took him down in the late 1990s and replaced him with a replica,”
Duncan said.

“It's
due to my Father really. When my brothers and I were young, he
brought us down to the column and held us up and explained it to us
each in turn. My Father pointed out proudly the thick cincture at the
base of the column, a hawser rope which represented its nautical
importance. Then the crossed anchors, the cannons, and the crocodile
which represented the Egyptian period of Nelson's experience. From
that moment my imagination conflated Captain Hook with the one-armed
Nelson. Such was my child's mind,” he added, feeling foolish in
leaving out the serious knowledge of the type of stone involved and
how and where it was made, for his personal imaginative and childish
memory.

"So Duncan,
was your family originally from Scotland?”

“Yes,
my Father's side of the family, a long history of cordage sellers. My
Mother's family, however, came from Macclesfield. That wouldn't be
too far from Bala I imagine."

“No, no, not too far," Noel said, gazing into his wine recollecting distant memories. "On one family vacation we passed through Chester and
Macclesfield on our way to the Peak district. A fine little city with
old stone homes I remember, though it must have changed since the
1950s.”

“Did you often go to the
Peak District?” Mary asked.

“No, just the once. Our
family generally passed a few weeks in summer on the northern coast of Wales, at Rhos on Sea, renting
a cottage. It was so quiet then. So peaceful even though it was a
summer holiday location. Now with these noisy water crafts, jet skis
and such, it is just not the same.”

“Have you been back to
Bala?” Edward enquired.

“No, not for decades. I
hear the old grammar school is now a restaurant however,” he said
with raised eyebrows.

One of those pauses that overcome a dinner party descended upon them, their cutlery taking over with its silver banter; an interregnum, as if the empty sixth chair, the vacant seat at the end of the table ever set in memory of Lavinia, had subsumed their thoughts into silence,

“The old elementary school
in NDG where my brothers and I attended is now a condominium," Duncan managed to break out with. "Condominification, is taking over. Chocolate
factories, cigarette factories, schools, churches, such is the world
we live in. Some of them are quite well preserved and developed, but
the prices are rather steep, and the unit space is rather
limited. Not much room for bookshelves.”

“Yes, so true," Noel agreed. "The lack of
space hinders and conditions the modern lifestyle. Our older choices
of large homes filled with all the furnishings and trappings
available seems quite divergent to the modern view of living. Indeed,
where does one put all of one's books?"

“Now you boys can go to
the living room and talk books while Amelia and I will talk about you
and prepare some tea. Or perhaps you can take George out for a walk,”
Mary at once demanded and suggested.

Duncan agreed to take George
out, and Noel saying he could use a breath of air, accompanied him,
leaving Edward to relax in his chair.

“I noticed a cat this
afternoon when I arrived. Not Edward's I assume?”

“No, it's a stray that
Amelia and I have been trying to trap and find a good home for. The
winter is coming and the mountain's no place for a weak cat. Owls,
hawks, and other dangers.”

“So, Edward tells me
you're a bookseller on top of your continuing the family business.
How are you managing?”

“Yes, you could say that.
Possibly a somnambulant funambulist.”
"That would be quite a feat," Noel said, only realizing his pun in its aftermath. "No pun intended."
Duncan laughed.

Noel, remembering his talk with Edward about Duncan and his affection for nautical terminology, said "Well, I am sorry to hear
your ship is somewhat becalmed. But you do have books for
ballast.”

“Hmm, it is more a lowly bark at the moment, and the ballast is aloft—the books are on the
second floor. Perhaps the ship has been upside down and I haven't
realized."
"Hmm, you're lacking some . . . leverage perhaps. Well, I hope you right
yourself and the winds shift in your favour. Don't make yourself walk the plank. No point in that I can tell you. Things will brighten up. They generally do."

They made their way down
towards the crossroad of the loop.

“I've never heard of the
publisher Oxtoby and Snoad. Where are they located?”

“Southwest of London in
the town of Rye," Noel rolled his r with relish. "An old building hidden away. They publish fine bound
editions, generally limited, although they have been branching out I
hear.”

“Rye! We've been
interested in visiting the town due to its literary associations with
Henry James et al.”

“Oh, my God, it's a bit of a tourist haven, overrun during the summer months. If you do visit, try
to visit early or late in the season. Many make the pilgrimage to Rye
House, and of course The Mermaid Inn is famous, or infamous,
for its ghosts. Yes, there is much in Rye. The husband and wife who
run Oxtoby and Snoad are a peculiar pair. If you find them,
say I sent you. They might even let you in.”

George stopped to do his
business and they both looked up to the sky.

“I am surprised to see
evidence of the strobe light through this heavy fog.”

“It comes from Place Ville Marie. Four large lights that turn slowly about, rather like a lighthouse. As a child in NDG . . .”

“I am sorry to interrupt
but what is this NDG?” Noel enquired.

“A district to the west of
here, down towards the very beginnings of the slope of Mount Royal.
Notre Dame de Grace, anglophied as NDG, or No Damn Good as my cousin
from Lachine would call it. Humans, we're so tribal. Anyway, I had a room over the garage, a
den, with two enormous windows facing the north east. I have wonderful
memories of lying on my bed, the two double windows pulled open, the
smell of light rain in the air, and I would watch the strobe light
scanning the undersides of the clouds. I used to count the seconds
between each sweep, and dream I was on a ship at sea passing a
lighthouse.”

They stood there silently,
watching the light and counting the seconds.

"I seem to remember it being fourteen seconds but it seems faster now."

"Ah, time does move faster as we age," Noel said with a smile in the dark.

*

Tea and shortbread were
served in the living room. A general silence overcame them as they
swirled and clinked their spoons waiting for Noel to return from the
washroom.

“I see the young man is
still hanging on the landing,” Noel said, standing quietly at the
door, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of hot tea.

“The only place that will
have him,” Edward said. “I find I rarely look at him these days.
His eyes, you see, never let you go.”

“As a child, my sister and
I would race up the stairs trying not to look, but we felt his eyes
on our backs as we ran up to the second floor,” Amelia said. “Then
we would peek around the corner, and sure enough, he caught us peeking every time. When we got older, we both rather fell in love with him. He is
handsome and dashing and . . . dominating.”

“A rival for your heart I
see,” Duncan said with a smile.

“What is his story Edward?
I don't think you ever revealed it to me,” Noel said before sipping
his tea.

“Well, to make a long
story short, his name was William Philip Seymour, and he was connected
with the English court in The Netherlands. When Elizabeth Stuart, the
daughter of James I married Frederick V, Elector of Palatine of the
Rhine in 1613 or so, there was great hope the achievements of the
Elizabethan period would be transferred to the German court at
Heidelberg and possibly carry on with the great liberal intellectual pursuits that had taken place in Prague under Rudolph II. It was a time, as Noel well knows, of political
intrigues. Protestants of England and northern Europe versus the
Catholics of Spain and the Hapsburgs. When Frederick attained the
status of King of Bohemia, they settled in Prague for the year
1619-1620.” Edward paused, dunking a shortbread piece into his tea,
and munching it while he looked thoughtfully up at the portrait of
Lavinia over the fireplace mantel. “I've told the story many times
but with every telling, details fall between the words. But, I shall
continue. There was a failure of the Protestants to come together to
defend the territory from the Catholics. James I, the Princess
Elizabeth's own Father failed to support them. In short, they had to
flee to the Netherlands where they set up court in exile while the
Thirty Years War raged. You can imagine the destruction.
The rare libraries and records destroyed. A terrible time. Well, my
distant relative was involved in the intrigues of the day and the
relationship with the court in exile. He had the
painting done in The Hague sometime in the 1620s, I believe, by a
Dutch artist. I have been told the artist could be Jan van Ravestyn, a very talented portrait artist.”

“I could just make out two
books under his left hand,” Noel mentioned.

“Yes, two volumes of some
kind. The painting is very dirty and no doubt would sparkle with a
cleaning. Perhaps enough to reveal symbols and signs on the bindings."

“And what became of him?”
Noel asked.

“He died not long after
the painting was completed. The stories vary as to how.” Edward
finished his cookie and drank tea while everyone's thoughts were in
the past.

Tuesday, January 08, 2013

“That's one of the ironies of being
in space,” Noel Welwyn Gough said.

"What is that sir?” the taxi driver
asked, his lively dark eyes reflected in the rear-view mirror.

“Well, the astronaut in the space
capsule or space station doesn't have much room, and yet, looking out
of the window . . . boundless space.”

“Very much ironic, yes,” and he
chuckled. Noel braced himself in the back
seat of the small cab, while the driver took the corner with one hand on
the wheel and the other gesticulating to the space beyond the window,
“boundless space. Yes, quite humorous.”

North American cabs, a complex
diversity of models, sizes, shapes and colours, were forever a
challenge to Noel, conditioned as he was, to the singularly iconic
London cabs with their spacious interiors and their ease of entry and
exit. Having to lean down and slide in through the narrow angled
opening of taxis in North America seemed like a stretching exercise
for a contortionist. How did the elderly manage he wondered? Although
he was 72, he didn't think of himself as elderly. Such a demographic
was still represented somewhat by his long deceased parents. Somehow,
his parents were forever old. He imagined his elderly Mother trying
to get in and out of one of these vehicles, then added snow into the
bargain, and shook his head, inwardly, ever sensitive to taxi
drivers and their sensitivity to admonishments as to their driving
habits. Montreal, he was told by his daughter, was famous for the
manoeuvres of its taxi drivers. If you were in a desperate chase of a
vehicle ahead, like some private eye in a movie of the 1950s, 'follow
that car cabbie!' Montreal was your kind of place. Montreal, where
the pedestrians had a breadth of interpretation when it came to red
lights, and jay walking was as common as pigeons on the sidewalk. A
city to keep you on your toes and on the edge of your seat, he
thought.

The taxi drove up the curving street,
the large older homes and enormous looming trees on the slope of the
mountain seeming to hover in the darkening thick atmosphere.
Approaching the juncture, Noel instructed the driver to keep to his
right and make his way around the loop to the far side. As they
passed the fork in the road, Noel realized the police cars were no
longer in evidence. When he had visited his friends Edward and
Lavinia in the early 1980s, two police cars were forever stationed on
the street, one facing up, and the other facing down on the opposite
side of the fork. Thomson and Thompson Edward had called them
with affection. Ever since the 1970 abduction of the British Trade
Commissioner, the street had been supplied with these supernumerary
security eyes. The locals must have both loathed and appreciated
them. Loathed for the reminder of the incident and for the unpleasant
constant sight of security, and appreciative for the sense of
protection they provided for their homes. He must remember to avoid
mentioning them. The city has moved on. Without them, however, Noel
felt he was passing between an unseen Scylla and Charybdis.

He tipped the
cabbie generously and told him to drive safely. He watched as the
taxi disappeared down the street, making its passage towards the
perils and possibilities of the unknown in the vibrant shrouded city
below. A beautiful city, now austere, grey, and humming with its
covert movements in the mist. A wealth of experiences lay before a
young man like that he thought with a touch of envy. A new generation
and its own discoveries.

Pressing
the doorbell, he heard the muted Gothic sound within, a sound which
reminded him of his bell-ringing days in Bala and beyond. Out of the
corner of his vision he glimpsed a rather forlorn looking cat scurry
amidst the shrubbery. Then he heard the clipping footsteps of a dog
approaching the other side of the door. It couldn't be George II.
That would be a miracle. The door opened wide with theatrical aplomb,
“Welcome, welcome, welcome! And you brought English weather with
you,” Edward said greeting Noel with open arms as George III
sniffed and gazed upwardly with circumspection.

“Come
in, come in. And what is this?” Edward asked receiving a package
from Noel.

“Oh,
nothing, nothing at all. A bottle of Port to remember the good days.
You're looking very
well. You haven't changed a bit. When was the last time we met? Was
it in London, no it was in Florence, in . . 1998.”

“Yes, that's
right, Florence,” Edward said. Then after a pause, “Fourteen
years. Well, they've been good to you as well. You're looking
healthy, hale and hearty, or is it the other way around?”

“Well,
there is more than a touch of winter in this old beard.”

“Dapper
as always I see.”

“I
have reached the age Edward when a bow-tie is almost expected. I have
tried to resist the cravat however. One has to draw the line
somewhere,” he added with a wink. “I remember as a child of seven
and eight, a bow tie was de rigueur.
Perhaps the Bard got it wrong after all. It should be the three
ages of man: bow tie, straight tie, and bow tie.”

“And
what would the ages of woman be?”

“I'm
quite sure Miriam could tell me. Probably one endless age of looking
after men.”

“How
is your dear wife?”

“She
is well and she sends you all her love.”

They
made their way into the living room, George III sniffing at the cuffs
of Noel's trousers.

“And which George
is this?”

“George the
third.”

He turned, and
bending low, introduced himself to the dog formally and proffered his
hand. George promptly took advantage of this offer and sniffed and
licked the clean and slightly chapped fingers. “Perhaps the reason
for your youthful looks is all the Georges you've had,” he said
looking into the lovely liquid eyes of the dog and petting his soft
yet stiff curly hair. “Or is there a painting in the attic we
should know about?”

“It might be a
bit early in the day for a glass of Port, but this is a special
occasion,” Edward said handing a glass to Noel.

“I think we
should raise a glass to Lavinia and Miriam.”

“To Lavinia and
Miriam,” Edward said. They raised their glasses and gently clinked
them together.

“Please have a
seat Noel, have a seat. Mary is just having a wee nap and we have
some time to chat. My niece Amelia and her husband Duncan, the
bookseller, will be joining us for dinner.”

“Excellent. Five
for dins. A toast to the wonderful Mary.”

“Yes indeed,”
and they raised their glasses. “So, how is your daughter?”

“Elizabeth is
very busy, very busy, and prospering. She has a condo. An investment.
Whether she sells now or rents it while she is in Paris, she will
make a profit. It's a rum business.” Noel's occasional
rolled 'R' was highly emphasized on this word. “A parking space
cost $35,000!” he said taking a sip of Port.

“Ah, my annual
tax bill.”

Noel raised his
eyebrows at this revelation. “An expensive bit of air to be sure.
But you made an excellent investment here considering what you must
have paid for it in the mid 1960s. A toast to you Edward.” Another
glass raised. A brief silence overtook them while George looked on, at ease.

“Why Paris?”

“Paris? Oh yes, a
transfer. Up the ladder. She will be a hop away from Miriam and I, so
that will be very nice. I believe there is a man involved as well. A
Parisian named Philip. Perhaps Miriam and I will have a new
son-in-law.”

Chumley's Rest

On Books

Henry James Quotes

The only success worth one's powder was success in the line of one's idiosyncrasy. Consistency was in itself distinction, and what was talent but the art of being completely whatever it was that one happened to be? One's things were characteristic or were nothing.

-The Next Time (Story originally published in The Yellow Book; issued in his collection Embarrassments, 1896.)

"We know too much about people in these days; we hear too much. Our ears, our minds, our mouths, are stuffed with personalities. Don't mind anything that anyone tells you about anyone else. Judge everyone and everything for yourself." (R. Touchett)